Not Good Enough
by wikiaddicted723
Summary: Done for an LJ prompt. Damian and Steph wager some very intimate issues, and after she finds herself losing to him what can she do to come out of it unscathed?  Future!Fic. Heed the rating.
1. The Dangers of Gambling

Stephanie Brown was an idiot. This was what she told herself as she closed the door behind her, leaning against it and locking it in the process. She took a deep breath. If anyone else where to be asked at that particular moment, she was sure they would side with that particular opinion. She was an idiot.

_It_ had happened a month ago, as Robin and Batgirl took down a new gang that had established itself at East end, terrorizing the female population. They had saved a group of young teenagers that were being tortured and induced into drugs to be used as playthings for the city's crime lords. Damian had been his usual snarky self, though God knew he'd curved that behavior a lot, up until the moment one of the women threw herself at him, kissing him passionately as her way of giving thanks. Damian's reaction though, had been priceless: he'd stayed statue still for a couple of seconds, shock evident in the way he carried himself, color rising to his cheeks until he resembled the Red Hood more than he did Robin. He'd proceeded to push the woman away; cursing in all the languages he knew when he realized his companion had seen it all. Steph had, by that point, been sitting on some ruined wooden boxes, clutching her sides as she tried – and failed – to regain composure from the force of her laughter.

"Shut up, Fatgirl" he'd said through clenched teeth as he walked past her towards his bike.

"What Boy Virgin, you fight criminals on a daily basis since you were ten, and you're scared of a drugged teenager kissing you?" she'd said chuckling, as she walked to his side.

"Who said I was afraid? And what's wrong with me being a virgin?"

"There's absolutely nothing wrong," she said, snorting, " I'm just saying, with those looks and that last name, you wouldn't be if you _could_ be gentle to women…but I guess some things _are_ impossible."

"You think I couldn't be gentle if I wanted to?" he'd said, eyebrow raised under his domino mask.

"Not if your life depended on it." She'd stated, arms crossed under her chest.

"Wanna bet?" he'd said, his super - villain smirk forming itself on his lips.

"Sure, I'll win anyway…what are we betting?" she'd known she was in deep when he'd turned to look at her fully, the mask's lenses raised so his eyes showed through, a hundred mile grin on his lips.

"If I do not make one rude comment to you in a fortnight, you'll sleep with me," his smile grew larger as her eyes widened, "but if I fail I'll be your servant for the rest of your life."

Steph had been left wordless; she'd swallowed hard, tying to find the words for a comeback.

"Scared, _Fatgirl?_" he'd taunted evilly, walking closer to her until she had to look up at him. _When had he gotten so _**tall**_?_

"Not for a minute, _Demon Spawn_…and make that a month, not a fortnight." She'd answered, hoping her bravado would make him unsure of himself, but then again, when had _that _ever worked?

"Done" he'd growled at her, extending his hand.

"Done," she'd grabbed his hand so hard she'd hurt herself, " prepare to be my bitch, jerk." She'd walked away briskly then, hiding the doubt on her face, glad that Babs had already called it a night. She'd never have heard the end of it if she'd been listening.

Today, a month later she realized _she'd_ been the one to underestimate _him._

He'd been nothing but the perfect gentleman for the past month, he'd been the sweetest guy she'd ever met, just as she'd been nothing but a merciless bitch to him, treating him like trash, ridiculing herself in front of him to make him mock her, and it had all failed. She knew she needed a psychiatrist when she found herself missing the jerk.

And now it was time to pay, because even if this was the last thing she ever wanted to do, even if she knew she would probably never live it down, she was a woman of her word, just as she knew he would've been her slave if he'd lost.

She looked at him as he gazed out the window, his back to her. He'd already taken his button down shirt off, and she could admire the hard planes of his well – formed back muscles. At seventeen, Damian Wayne had the body of an athlete; he did not yet have his father's bulk, or his height, but he'd inherited the playboy's looks, and as he'd demonstrated for the past month, his charm. The Damian in front of her was a far cry from the murderous ten year old she'd known, even if at times she caught glimpses of him. He'd become a quiet man, withdrawn into himself to all except to the ones closest to him. This man had, against all odds become one of her closest friends, even if they'd never gotten past the witty remarks and the barely concealed animosity, it was how they worked. She sighed – by God, was she dumb - and walked towards him, tentatively putting her hand between his shoulders. He stiffened at the contact before relaxing slowly into her hand, and she found herself being partially amused by his awkwardness, he was a sweet kid, deep, deep down beneath the thick, hard skin and the scars, she knew.

He turned his head to look at her, acknowledging her presence, waiting for her to say something.

"Uh…pay time…I guess?" she asked, looking away, withdrawing her hand from his back and hugging herself. It was cold outside today.

He turned towards her fully, stepping closer to her, taking her hands in his, away from her body. He bit his lip slightly, frowning down at her.

"Are you cold…or afraid of me?" he asked quietly, making her look at him. Was she afraid? She was nervous, sure, but afraid of him…of Damian?

"Cold, little D, just cold." She told him, more to reassure herself than him. He stepped closer, until her nose was level to his throat, rubbing her arms up and down. He grabbed her chin in his hand, making her look up at him.

"You don't want to do this, do you?" he asked. She put her hands against his chest; this was the closest they'd ever been.

" If I wanted to do this I would've done it without needing to lose a bet, don't you think?" she said, somewhat harshly. He grabbed her wrists, pulling her hands away from him gently and stepped back, looking down.

She looked up and sighed yet again, wondering why she had to have been so proud as to accept that ridiculous bet. She reached down and took her purple sweater off in one fluid motion, stepping closer to him.

"Let's get this over with." She said, her voice hard.

"What! But –"

"I gave you my _word _Damian! And I most certainly don't want to do this. Not now, and definitely not with _you_, but I pay my debts, so shut up and do me already." She was going to regret this, she knew.

He hissed through clenched teeth, frustrated, and grabbed the back of her neck, forcing himself to be gentle as he crushed his mouth to hers, kissing her slowly. He was clumsy and inexperienced, not knowing what to do, so she grabbed his face, guiding him, showing him how to do it. When he was fairly certain she wasn't going to pull back he released her neck, making his way hesitantly down her back, his fingertips brushing the silky cloth of her tank top until they came to rest on her hips, pressing her against him. His hands shook hard against her, making her pull away from him, her eyes widening in surprise.

"You're shaking…" she said softly. He looked away, swallowing hard, and tightened his grip on her, forcing the shaking to a stop.

"Sorry," he said, kissing the side of her face and down her jaw line, the slight pauses in between the only sign of how awkward this was for him. She returned her hands to his chest, feeling the muscles contract and expand with every shaky breath he took. As hard as she tried she couldn't shake the sense of wrongness in her, she couldn't get herself to relax, even if she was starting to feel dazed by the closeness, and the kisses and the jackhammer beating of his heart against her hand, and she knew he noticed.

_This is nothing_, she told herself, _you don't have to feel anything, anything at all. _She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, resting her head on his chest, feeling his reaction as he stiffened in surprise and relaxed in the blink of an eye, probably not wanting her to notice, she smiled to herself at that, though not unkindly. He was always trying to seem unaffected, and she guessed that wasn't going to change. She fumbled for a moment with his belt, undoing it awkwardly; she hadn't been with anyone for a while, not since her on and off thing with Tim, whatever it was, if it had been something, had come to an end a couple of years ago. She really missed him sometimes, when she didn't want to hit him, but it wasn't nice to think about your ex – whatever – he – was when you were about to have sex with another guy, so she dispelled all thoughts of him as she finally got Damian's black pants undone, feeling his hands roaming through her abdomen, touching, feeling.

_You need to stop thinking. Stop _thinking_, Steph._

She felt his hands gently tugging the cloth upwards and raised her hands over her head, helping him remove the shirt. He looked so much like a kid at that moment that she was tempted to hug him, but then he put his arm around her waist and pressed her to him as close as she could get, and what she felt against her was definitely not a kid. She looked up at him; her blond eyebrow raised, and saw him watching her, color rising up the back of his neck.

The only thing he wanted right now was to be adequate, for her to see him as he was and not as he had once been. What hurt the most was knowing, as he looked at her, that she didn't want to be there with him, but he also knew that this was the only time he'd get to be with her, and the horny seventeen –year – old in him did not want to spoil it, he'd just have to swallow the bleeding pieces of his heart, quietly. But that too, was nothing new; he'd been doing it since he could remember. He brought his other hand up to her face and brushed her blond locks away, dipping his head to press his lips against her neck, the shell of her ear, holding her firmly against him, feeling her squirm with his actions, encouraging him on.

She bit her lip, hard, trying to drown the moan that was trying to come out, stuck in the back of her throat, the last thing she needed was to embarrass herself in front of him of all people. Instead she found herself tracing his chest with her hands, feeling every muscle twitch under her fingertips, kissing his chest softly when she felt his hands shaking on her back once more. She made a trail downwards with the palms of her hands, her head on his shoulder. When she reached the waistline of his undone pants she hesitated for a moment, feeling him freeze under her hands, his breathing hard in her ear. She shook her head imperceptibly, sliding one hand down the front of his pants, feeling him through the soft material of his boxers. He jolted visibly at her touch, twitching under her hand, a throaty groan making its way to her ear. He brought his shaky hands up her back then, fumbling with the clasp of her bra for a few seconds before getting it undone, all but ripping it away from her. He kissed her then, passionately; he'd always been a fast learner. She let his pants drop at his actions, feeling him caressing her carefully, eliciting a moan she couldn't suppress, her warm breath against his throat making him shiver. He nibbled at her pulse points, sliding his hands down to unbutton her jeans, feeling her hands leave his body and clasp his at her waist, helping him push the rough fabric down her lean, strong legs. She pushed him backwards then, walking with him until his calves hit the bed, making him sit in front of her. She tugged at his boxers and pulled them away from him once he'd raised his hips to make it easier for her, and proceeded to discard her own panties, carding her hands through his black hair. He'd grown it longer than she remembered him having as a kid. He grabbed her wrists in his hands then, moving her away from him to look at her. He stared, sucking in a breath so hard that she could hear it.

"It's rude to ogle," she told him, joking, trying to lighten the atmosphere _because it couldn't mean anything_, her voice not quite right. His eyes widened, finally coming to rest o her face again.

"…I - …You -…" he stammered, swallowing, huffing in frustration he pulled her to him, pressing his face against her cheek, " you're beautiful…" he murmured, blushing. A tiny part of her melted then.

She hugged his head against her chest, kissing the top of his head.

"Thanks, D, that's cute…you're pretty good yourself." She whispered back, trying as hard as she could not to blush in return. He _was_ pretty good indeed; she just found it weird to think of him like that.

_Cute_, he thought, her words echoing in his head, _that's all I'll ever be to her. Cute._ He closed his eyes, swallowing the anger that threatened to bubble. He pulled away from her gently, and rummaged in his bedside table's drawer until he found the foil wrapped condom he'd been looking for. She stopped him then, grabbing the package in her hand and throwing it over her shoulder unceremoniously.

"There's no need," she said when she saw his face, " I've been on the pill for a while" she told him. He simply looked her in the eye and nodded soberly, bringing her closer to him, his hands tight on her hips.

"I wont last," he told her somewhat embarrassedly as she straddled him.

"I know," she said, kissing his forehead, "Ready?" she asked him.

He rested his forehead on her shoulder, using every meditation technique he knew to even his unsteady breathing. He nodded, gritting his teeth as he felt her moving against him, his breath hitching. She bit her lip at the feeling, bringing her hands down to her hips, lacing her fingers through his, making him loosen his grip. She didn't want there to be bruises tomorrow morning. He rolled them suddenly, gasping at the change, making her grab his shoulders in surprise. He rested his weight on his forearms, hovering above her, the hot puffing of his breath warming the side of her face, his chest heaving.

"You okay?" she asked him, noticing his lack of movement. He nodded stiffly not finding the strength to speak, bringing her legs up to his waist. She closed her eyes as he started to rock slowly against her, muffling her voice with his shoulder as she hugged him to her, because she couldn't let him hear just _how _he was affecting her with all this. Because she could feel _him_ reining himself in, being careful not to hurt _her._

_Dammit, Damian, don't do this to me, _She thought to herself, because if _he _cared she couldn't bring herself not to. And _she couldn't feel anything, _else she'd never be able to look at him in quite the same way after this terrible mistake. She realized he was murmuring something in a language she didn't know, and she knew that she was meant to hear it because he was whispering in her ear, the same phrase over and over again. She was meant to hear it, but not to understand it.

A few moments later it was over, and he was trembling, trying to hold himself up without crushing her with his weight. She pulled him down on top of her, making circles on his scalp with her fingers while he kept murmuring, breathing harshly, the silence in the room allowing her to memorize the sounds of whatever it was he was saying to her.

Once his heartbeat was back to normal he rolled away from her to lay beside her, looking at the ceiling, running his ands through his hair.

"Did I – " he paused, swallowing, "did I hurt you?" he asked, his vice small, concerned.

She closed her eyes, breathing in, rolling to face away from him so he couldn't see the small tear that made its way down her cheek.

_Damnyoudamnyoudamnyoudamnyou!_

"No, I… I'm fine." She said, pausing, hating herself for doing what she was about to, but she saw no other way of shutting him – this nice, lovable version of him – out, "may I go now?" she asked, hearing his breath hitch.

"Be my guest…took you long enough anyway" he spat at her, in a tone she hadn't heard from him in a month; angry, irritable and hateful, every bit the Damian she knew. _This_ man she _could_ walk away from, and she was almost thankful. Almost.

She stood up, brushing her hair away from her forehead and started dressing, not once pausing to look at him, feeling his stare burn into her like bullets as he followed her every movement. She left the room, the apartment, without a word.

In her haste, she never saw him grab the nightstand and hurl it to the floor with a sob, the shards of the lamp's light bulb scattering on the floor. Never heard Alfred rush to his door from the kitchen with worry etched on his old, kind features.

"Is everything okay Master Damian?" Alfred asked pausing at the closed door, hesitating, his hand on the knob.

"Yes Alfred, it's fine… just as always."

Just as always, he was not good enough to be loved.

Day 1


	2. Hate is Better

The splash of sticky, warm liquid against his armor –covered chest startled Damian into full awareness, taking his mind away from the burning pain that spread like acid through the right side of his ribcage. He was disoriented, lights flickering in and out of his vision, not understanding what was happening. The buzzing in his ears echoing like an interminable cacophony inside his head. And then he felt the small warm body draped over his chest and the sensations registered, clicking into place.

_Nonono, please no!_ He thought, not daring to look down as the city lights came into focus, the distinct smell of Gotham's night air and the feel of the gravel underneath him regaining their clarity. He made an effort to move his head, the sting on the back of his neck and the tingling of the cuts and scrapes on his legs telling him that the fall from the five story building had not broken him; not physically at least. He turned his head to the side, spitting blood and grime.

He looked down towards his chest…and screamed.

Lying on top of him, small and still warm was the mangled, lifeless body of the little girl he'd dived after, the blood from the shotgun wounds that had been meant for him spreading around their sprawled shapes on the pavement, and Damian Wayne, who was Robin, could do nothing but cradle the small, damp head in his hands, waiting…. waiting…waiting.

He was still screaming at the top of his lungs when a worried Batman and the Police found them.

Dick turned away, covering his face with his hands when he saw the scene in front of him, wishing he could drown out Damian's screams with his own, wishing he could not see the hot tears streaming down his partner's, his brother's, eyes. Wishing he could not feel the sticky, crimson blood under his boots. He balled his hands into fists and straightened, opening his eyes to see Batgirl running towards them, worried by the screams and the commotion. She'd probably been patrolling nearby, and he knew that if she was here Barbara had to be watching from somewhere. He took a deep breath and stepped in front her, stopping her, noticing how all color was drained from her face when she saw what lay behind him. She clapped a hand to her mouth, a small sob escaping her lips, as Dick's strong hands came to rest on her shoulders.

"You can't crumble on me right now, Steph," he murmured so that only she could listen to him, knowing Barbara was listening in, "he needs us to be strong for him, so you're going to go help the police with the other kidnapped children and then you go back to Oracle and tell her everything you've seen here, tell her to call Alfred and have him prepare the medical kit, I think he might have broken something," he paused, watching her watch as the child's body was forcibly extricated from a sobbing Damian by Gotham's finest, impotence apparent in her cornflower blue eyes, along with something like fear, "Am I _understood, _Batgirl?" he said, louder, using the raspy, commanding voice of the Batman. She nodded in assent, unable to speak, finally looking him in the eye before turning on her heel and, with one last look over her shoulder, running to the group of policemen that were all but shepherding the lost children on the other end of the street.

Dick took a deep breath, collecting himself, and went to stand beside Damian, pushing some of the swarming policemen away. It hurt to see his little brother, his stubborn, angry jerk of a seventeen –year –old little brother like this, because he knew that beneath his cool, detached façade he was as passionate about his feelings as his father… and just as emotionally clueless most of the time. But he needed to be strong, right now he could not allow himself to be the concerned older brother, right now he needed to be the Batman, implacable, unfeeling.

"Stand up, Robin," Damian heard Dick say, his voice cold, inflectionless, undeniable. He opened his eyes to look at him as he stood by his side, his figure imposing. He wanted to die, to have an excuse to remain there, amid the pool of cooling blood that should've been his, "_Stand up_, Robin," he heard again; this time Dick extended his black – gloved hand down to him and Damian didn't know where he'd gotten the strength to clutch it, but he did, and then Dick pulled him up, only to have him fall down on his knees with a yelp at the searing pain on his side, his diaphragm clenching, driving the breath out of him, his beat –up muscles cramping, protesting at the movement. He brought his free hand to grab blindly at his side, trying to make the pain go away, but then Dick put his good arm, the one that did not hurt like the fire of ten thousand hells, around his broad shoulders and forced him into a standing position; he grunted in pain.

"Can you walk?" Dick asked. He nodded his head, teeth clenched, every step he took stretching his ribcage to the point of pain, and then they were at the batmobile and Dick was all but lifting him in and the pain was just _so much. _ He felt every muscle scream in agony, every drop of blood in his body burning like a small sun, every bone crunch and break and come back into place, and then suddenly, like he'd been dumped on a pool of icy water, he began feeling cold, detached, as boneless as if he were a puppet and someone had just cut his strings…but then the darkness came and he felt nothing more.

Stephanie was worried. Worried sick, to be more precise, as the lift's door opened and she saw Barbara, Oracle, come towards her, the determined look on her face and the grim set of her mouth alerting her that she was going to have to tell her _everything _she'd seen. Not that she'd been thinking of doing anything else, but the image of Damian, the same Damian she'd known since he was but a child, the same Damian she'd – mistakenly – slept with a little over a week ago (God, she could still feel his shaky hands _everywhere_ when she slept), the same Damian that would now _not_ talk to her under any circumstance, lying there sobbing and screaming like she'd never seen him before, clutching the dead body of a child tightly to his chest disturbed her immensely. But perhaps, she thought, what concerned her the most was her own reaction; she'd wanted to go to him, to comfort him somehow, to hug him to her and tell him it was alright, but in the end she'd been too afraid of his reaction, afraid of…rejection, maybe. But then, she told herself, it was only natural that she'd seek to comfort him, after all he'd been her friend, her best friend besides Wendy and Babs if she were to be sincere with herself, ever since he'd grown used to her presence and accepted her role in the family.

She stepped into the basement then, taking her cowl away from her face and raking her hands through her hair, coming to sit beside Babs, who was taping her fingers worriedly on the desk.

"So, what was all that about?" Babs asked, clearly worried. Steph sighed and put her head in her hands.

"I – I'm not sure," she said quietly, she could still hear the screams ringing in her ears, "I think they finally found those kidnapped children the press has been going on about, and…it looked like…" she couldn't make the words come out right, it felt as if they'd gotten stuck on the back of her throat. Barbara saw this and, uncharacteristically, drew her into an awkward hug, patting her back, "come on kid, just…breathe and tell me what happened, it's alright to feel bad about it." She said, if Dick said she had to know then she _had_ to know. Stephanie drew in a shaky breath and continued.

"I don't really know exactly _what_ happened, but we both heard those god – awful screams nearby, and then I began hearing and insane amount of Police sirens driving by, so I ran after them, and..." she hesitated, looking up into Barbara's worried green eyes, " and I found Dick and a group of policemen surrounding Damian…oh God, Damian…he – he was just sprawled there on the street, screaming his lungs out, and…and _crying_…Babs I'd never seen him cry, not like that, and then I noticed the pool of blood around him and I thought he might be wounded, but then I – I…I saw the girl, at least I think it was a girl, she couldn't have been more than seven or eight years old, and he was cradling her, holding her close, and then the Policemen were all but wrestling her away from him, and …and the blood was all hers, and not Damian's…she'd been shot, more than once…it – they looked like shotgun wounds, Babs who shoots _little girls_ with a _shotgun_?" she said, out of breath, "and then Dick took a hold of me, and he talked to me, and I can barely remember what he said, something about being strong and…oh _dammit!_ We've got to call Alfred, he- Dick said Damian might be hurt or something, I'd totally forgotten to tell you!" Barbara stopped her then, putting a hand on her shoulder, smiling softly.

"Don't worry, I already called, knowing Dick he probably knew I'd been listening in." she said, watching as Steph seemed to fall down on herself in relief.

A few moments later she stood up, in silence, and went to the changing room, peeling the skin – tight suit from her toned body and hurriedly changing into her civvies. She needed to see him.

Barbara knew something was wrong the moment she saw Steph hurrying to the elevator in her civvies, because a) she never went anywhere without showering first, and b) she was not trying to talk her ears out. And if something was wrong she'd make damn sure that she told her, she didn't need her having bottled up feelings, those usually led nowhere. She should know.

"Steph," she said, using a voice that left not room for argument – she'd learned that from Bruce himself, "is something wrong…you know you can tell me anything right?"

"OK, _creepy_," Steph said, regaining some of her natural wise – ass emotive pattern, "you just sounded like my mom there, Babs."

Barbara stared for a moment before laughing, she _had _sounded like that. But that was not a valid excuse to ignore her previous question.

"Don't try to change the topic, Stephanie," she said, with mock sternness, "What's going through your head?"

"I…Is there something wrong with me?" she asked, looking at her over her shoulder.

"Why would there be?" Barbara frowned.

"Because I – the only thing I could think about when I realized that it wasn't Damian who'd been shot was that…that I was _happy_ that it had been someone else…what kind of a creep does that make me, Babs?" she said, her voice tortured, but then she turned around fully and disappeared behind the elevator's closing door, avoiding Barbara.

Had she stayed a moment more she would have caught the glint of suspicion on Barbara's eyes, after all she'd thought the exact same thing after Dick had nearly died, twice. She didn't need to ask where she was going.

Damian's head had to have been caught by a crushing machine, if the ringing in his ears and the migraine he'd woken up with were any indication, but then he cracked his eyes open and saw the bandages on his chest, and it all came back to him. It hadn't been a crushing machine; it had been a five-story fall and the death of a child by bullets that had been meant for him. If not for his body - armor and the fire escape stairs he'd crashed against – which had probably been the ones to crush his ribs – he'd have far more extensive damage. Not that he was especially glad to be alive. He sighed audibly.

"Master Dick, he's up." He heard Alfred say quietly, followed by silent steps which were meant to be heard, else dick would have appeared out of thin air by his side; it was an ability they had to perfect, being the perfect lurkers.

"Hey, chum…how're you feeling?" he heard Dick say.

"Tt – like crap, how else do you expect me to feel, Grayson?" he said, trying to sit up without hurting his very tender ribcage. Dick laughed.

"At least we know you didn't suffer any brain damage," Dick said, grinning, "wow, hold on, hold on, take it easy on the movement department," he said as he saw Damian sitting up, his teeth clenched in pain, the muscles of his jaw bunching in concentration, "you've got yourself three cracked ribs and a nicely pulled abdominal muscle, and _that_ hurts like hell."

"Oh, really?" Damian asked sardonically, grimacing. He was met by Dick's silence, a thoughtful look on his eyes.

"What?" Damian asked.

" What happened to you, today?" Dick asked sternly.

"What? Nothing! I'm _fine_, I was trying to save the girl!" he said, indignant. He was tiered sure, but there was nothing wrong with him, not with Robin anyway.

"You were sloppy Damian, you left the other kids unprotected, and you jumped without attaching your line first. This wouldn't have happened if you were _fine_," said Dick, more concerned than he was angry, "…Alfred tells me you've not been sleeping…so what's up kid?"

"You're not my father Grayson, as I seem to have to remind you constantly, besides…it doesn't matter, I _have_ been sleeping, just not as well as I did. I don't know why. And I'm _not a kid_ anymore if you've somehow failed to notice" He lied smoothly, somewhat angrily; in reality he'd been keeping himself awake almost forcefully throughout the week. Every time he closed his eyes for more than a few minutes he could hear Stephanie asking him if she could leave, the words as clear as if she were whispering in his ear.

Dick didn't buy it for a minute, but he knew Damian enough not to press the issue. But then Damian made to stand up and he put his hand on his chest, stopping him.

"You're in no shape to be walking, kid." He said, his voice laced with compassion, he was just _so stubborn._ He was answered by a swift and rock solid punch to the side of his face that left him stumbling back into a nearby couch.

"I AM NOT A _KID!" _ Damian shouted angrily, standing on his own two feet, swallowing the burning pain in his side; it did hurt to stand, it hurt like nothing he'd ever physically felt, but he was not about to tell that to Dick. He needed to clear his head. He stumbled away, towards the elevator, clutching his hurting side, and was met by its double doors opening to the mesmerizing blue of Stephanie Brown's eyes.

"You're alright," he said, releasing a breath he'd been holding somewhere inside. He was just so relieved to see her that he seemed to sag forward, only to be caught by her in something that might have resembled a hug; those were the first words he spoke to her in a little over a week. He tensed instinctively at the feeling of her hands around him, yelping in pain when she unknowingly touched his broken ribs. She released him immediately, holding him up by the shoulders when it was clear that he needed help standing, but then he inhaled sharply and took her wrists in his hands, standing upright with a visible effort and moving away from her touch. She was hurt, slightly, but decided to let it pass. He was wounded and now was not the time to fight for things as _insignificant _as the fact that he seemed to be disgusted by the mere idea of her touching him. Would that he'd felt that way a week ago.

"I should've been the one to ask that, but clearly the answer's no…" she said, concerned, he seemed to be straining to stay upright, "Did I hurt you?"

"No," he said, an intense look in his eyes that she couldn't quite understand, taking a step towards her, making her walk backwards by his gentle hold on her wrists until her back hit the metallic double doors behind her, " I'm _fine_." He said, unable to mask the hurt in his voice because the pain was too much, which pain…that was another matter altogether.

She closed her eyes, biting her lip; those were the same words _she'd_ said to him when he'd asked her if she was hurt. It crossed her mind then that maybe she'd hurt him more than she'd intended to, that maybe she'd gone too far.

She looked up at him then, brushing his cheek with her fingers, feeling him lean into her touch without thinking; she pulled her hand away then, sighing.

"…Don't do this to yourself…" she whispered to him, "I –" she wanted to say that she was sorry, sorry that she'd let herself be moved by his taunts, sorry that she hadn't walked out on him when she'd had the chance to avoid this stupid, stupid mess they'd gotten themselves into, but then he slammed a hand against the doors, making then tremble, the force of the impact resonating behind her, shushing her effectively, and then he was leaning into her and coming close enough that she could taste his breath on her tongue.

"Don't give me that," he said, the sheer, cold _fury _in his low tone freezing her in place, his voice raw, "the _last _thing I want from you is your fucking _pity_, so don't you _dare_ pity me you bitch."

She slapped him, hard. Her hand stinging from the force of the blow, but he didn't seem to flinch, sneering down at her instead; she cocked her other hand back to slap his other cheek, trying to erase that smug little smile from his lips, but he caught her arm mid – air, clutching it so tight that she whimpered in pain.

"You asshole," she said to him, wounded. His smile only got wider. She didn't notice that, unlike other times, it didn't reach his sorrow - filled eyes.

"That's better, Brown. You should hate me; hate is intense enough for me to respect. So hate me, and leave me the _fuck alone_." No sooner had he finished saying this, had the doors behind her opened, and she found herself being twisted around on her feet, their positions reversed, and then his hand released her and his form disappeared behind the closing doors. No one could see as his body sagged backwards against the elevator's walls, his body sliding down slowly until he found himself sitting down, one of his hands clutching his side as the other held his face. _Yes_, he thought, biting down hard on his shaking fist, _hate is better_.

Moments after the doors closed, she heard someone approaching her and, turning around, found Dick staring at her wide-eyed, shock apparent in his features. He had seen everything…and was about to start some sort of rant, she could just feel it.

"Don't, " she said, all her strength leaving her, " just don't."

" There's something going on between them, isn't it?" said a weary Barbara on the other side of his computer screen. She'd beaten him in asking that same question.

"I think so, yes... some detectives we are, huh? I wonder just how long this has been going on under our noses." Dick said, running his hands through his hair. Leaning on his elbows in front of the computer.

"A week, maybe two I'd say. That's how long she's been weird around here at least"

"Same here…" he said, his eyes quickly scanning over a file Alfred had given him earlier, his eye catching a picture that had been clipped on the very last page. He scanned it, all color draining from his face as recognition settled in his eyes, " oh, God, no…" he whispered, catching Barbara's attention.

"What…Dick, what's wrong?" she asked, worried now. Dick yanked the picture off the page, letting the rest of the papers fall to the floor and raising it to the web camera. He immediately saw her recognize what he'd seen, shock making it's way to her face. She covered her mouth with one of her long – fingered hands. Now they both knew why Damian had been screaming when they'd found him.

The file said the little girl's name was Penny, her eyes were a certain shade of cornflower blue, wide and shinny, framed by an adorable splatter of light freckles. Her hair was golden, and she was smiling a dimpled smile, and she was only just six. She looked like a miniature version of one Stephanie Brown.


	3. So Much that it Hurts

This was _so _not good.

_And_ she was going to get yelled at, she just knew it…that is, _if_ they came out of this particular situation alive, which she was starting to doubt with every passing second, every stinging scratch of the splintered glass beneath her as she slid across it slowly, every burning strain on her arm muscles as she held onto Damian's good arm in an attempt to save him from crashing fifty stories down into the hard pavement after being propelled out the window – hence the broken glass – his weight dragging her with him slowly. Damn was he _heavy._

_

* * *

_

It had been a quiet night on Gotham's streets that night. A rare, but much appreciated thing in Stephanie's perspective, what with Bruce away in India dealing with some Batman Incorporated stuff, Dick doing his own Batman thing and Damian stuck to bed with three broken ribs and a mild abdominal muscle injury. Not that she was worried about him in the _least_; he'd made it abundantly clear that he did not want anything to do with her. It was just that he'd looked so miserable when she'd seen him stumbling for the elevators, and so relieved when he'd seen her alive and well… no, she was _not_ worried _at all. _

She sighed, her breath a cloud of blue smoke in the starred background of Gotham's skies, the city alive beneath her, all around her; light's blinking, cars moving in an endless mass of people going home from work. It was why she did what she did, why they _all _did it. To give their people moments like this, when they could walk their own streets without concern, without watching their backs for thieves and murderers.

She rubbed her wrist in a circular motion for the umpteenth time that night, sometimes Damian was not aware of his own strength…but not that night, that night he'd applied as much force as he'd wanted to, intending to hurt and bruise. And bruise he did, though not just her flesh…it was probably what stung the most, apart from the fact that as hard as she tried, she couldn't get herself to hate him. She could not stop thinking that she'd brought all this on herself, that she'd been the one to hurt him with her words, her actions. What comes around does go around after all.

She was distracted from her musings by a flash of red and gold on the corner of her eye, and that, at this time and in this place only meant one thing, and it was not a good thing. She was going to _kill him._

She ran after him, chasing him from rooftop to rooftop. He knew he was being followed, and used his every skill to outrun her, but she'd learned him well, she knew how he moved, how he thought…and he was injured, she could see, if she concentrated enough, the slight limp that was barely there as he ran, how he favored the left side of his body when he jumped, how he rolled onto his left shoulder when he landed. She came to a dead end alleyway, and not finding him before her, stopped in her tracks, looking around; she was letting herself get caught, and that was exactly what he did, grabbing her cape and pressing her back against his chest, a gloved hand clapping her mouth as he forced her to lie still on the darkened indent of the wall behind them.

"What are you doing here?" he asked her, his voice hoarse with the effort of recovering his breath, but she could still hear the disdain in his voice, cold as the night itself, and it was just for her. She bit his hand hard, grabbing it and twisting his wrist until he let go of her, elbowing his good side – she wasn't that bad – and pushing him back against the wall, leaving him stunned at the anger in her backlash.

"I should be the one asking you that, you _idiot_!" she shouted at him, beating on his chest, "You should be in bed thinking of how much you hate my guts while you recover, not running around like an aimless _toddler._ You're going to hurt yourself worse than you already did!" she snapped at him, she wanted to hit him until her hands hurt for being such an idiot. He grabbed her hands in his, weaving his fingers with hers, twisting.

"Why do _you_ care? I'm just a _toddler _aren't I? Besides, I don't answer to _you,_" he said angrily, not looking at her. She pushed herself away from him, throwing her hands up, frustrated. Why did he have to be so _thick_! Couldn't he see that she cared?

"Just what _is it_ with you! You –you're different, D, you're not …you, not since _that_ day," she didn't have to say which day, they both knew perfectly well what she was talking about, "And how come you _hate me_ all of a sudden?" she said, her voice hushed, not wanting to hear how she'd ruined a friendship that – weird as it was – she'd taken so much care to build over the years.

He looked at her, the lenses of his mask down so she couldn't see his deep blue eyes shine with the lights around them. It made no difference; she could still feel the heat of his stare.

"Tt - I don't hate you…I _can't_ hate you," he said, his voice flat, emotionless, but he was looking right at her, and she could see, in the smallest twitching of his jaw muscles, how hard it was for him to admit that, the annoyance bit no more than an act he put up for his dumb emotional modesty. But when what he'd said finally sunk in and she was about to ask something else, they began hearing gunshots and shouting nearby; so much for a quiet night in Gotham City.

She looked at him and saw him looking away; avoiding her as he began to run towards the sounds, sure that she'd be right behind him.

She laughed ruefully, _that arrogant prick, _she thought, she _would _be right behind him.

That very same seemingly harmless run – around – town chase, as it was, had lead them here, to the fifty-third floor of one of Wayne enterprises auxiliary facilities, mainly office – filled floors, full with provisional divisions. The ambience for the prefect ambush, they realized, as the four riders of apocalypse lead them into a room filled with more copyrighted minions, because yeah...they all looked the same, and there were fifteen of them.

"Darn it." Steph muttered, her back pressed firmly to Damian's, her rod in hand.

" Relax, it is not the worse we've faced." He said stonily, his cocky attitude making her want to facepalm, because even though she wasn't looking at his face she knew there was a smug little smirk on it. But he was right; it wasn't as if they hadn't faced much worse. He tapped her thigh once, giving her the go signal, and the all out attack began.

They went their separate ways, each of them taking on an equal number of men on their own, punching and kicking their way through them until they were forced to regroup in the middle. There were few of them left standing, and yet these people knew how to do some hardcore teamwork, but then so could they. She felt his hands tap her shoulders and raised her own to meet his, grabbing his forearms, feeling him lean back against her, widening his stance fractionally, bending his knees further, and then he bent at the waist and she was rolling over his back, following the shape of his body, the momentum of his motion making her airborne as he twisted their joined hands and sent her spinning forward into one of the miscreants, her feet landing squarely on his chest, throwing him to the ground; she was sure she'd felt the give of his ribs as she fell.

She looked back at Damian, grinning, and saw him trying to grin back through the pain in his face, grabbing at his side while fending off a couple of people that were swarming in around him, he'd hurt himself doing that throw. She went to him, hitting one of the attackers on the back of his neck with the edge of her hand, knocking him to the ground. There were only the four original men missing, and they were holding up.

It was then that she heard a tell tale beeping noise, and, noticing the same thing, the four men looked at each other, disengaging, and ran. She stopped Damian from going after them, her arm pressing back against his chest. He was hurt, and this was getting weirder by the minute.

"Shush…listen,' she told him when he scowled at her. The beeping noise kept getting louder as she found where it was coming from; the man she had tackled to the ground had pulled his mask off, a loony grin adorning his blood – smeared face, his cell phone clutched tightly in his hand. He waved at them goodbye and pressed the end button, activating small C4 charges that had been planted all around the room without them noticing first.

The blast propelled them both backwards, but Steph hooked her foot on a desk, stopping her from following Damian's body out the window. The impact had made her clasp his tunic in her hand as tight as she could, and she now held him by his arm to stop his demotion from Robin to flesh puree. Which brought them here.

This _really _wasn't good, she thought, especially because at this time she would have been taking a nice, hot bath before delving into much deserved sleep; but _no_, she had to be _here_, holding the guy who was determined not to talk to her unless he found it necessary, albeit his statement that he couldn't hate her – which gave her insurmountable relief, for some reason – was helping her find strength were she didn't know she had any. She looked down towards him, grinning in relief.

"Guess you owe me one, huh?" she said to him, her ears still ringing, both their noses bleeding. He coughed, and spit down into the far – below street, clearing his throat, grabbing her forearm as tight as he could without hurting her. Looking up at her, she knew he was rolling his eyes at her antics beneath the mask's lenses; it was there in the set of his jaw and the smirk tugging at a corner of his mouth.

"Tt – I'll owe you one when you figure out how to get us out of here alive" he said, his voice hoarse, eliciting a laugh out of her. He was the only man she knew who could sound _annoyed_ when hanging out the window of a skyscraper two thousand feet above the ground. But then he looked beyond her, and his eyes widened, his lungs working to take in a sharp breath that stung in his chest. She'd started to turn her head to look when he stopped her.

"Don't look, Batgirl, don't look back." He said to her, his voice desperate, _afraid_, making her head freeze in place, her eyes glued on him. What she couldn't see from her position was the man that walked towards her, having entered the room after the blast, gun cocked, trained on the back of her head. Apparently, whoever had arranged for this little stunt wanted to make damn sure that Robin and Batgirl were no more.

She watched as he closed his mouth, his lips pursed in a thin line, his jaw clenched tight in concentration and pain as he used his body strength to plant his feet on the windows in front of him, grunting, using her weight as leverage, his other, more injured hand reaching into his utility belt and grabbing his grappling gun.

"Hold on tight." He ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument as he tightened his hold on her arm to the point of pain.

* * *

"What are you doing?" Damian heard her asking him, bewildered.

"Something crazy!" he shouted and then, with a heave, he pulled.

_This is going to hurt._

He saw it happening before him as if in slow motion, his mind working fast in what he needed to do next as their bodies were held up in the air, joined by their hold on each other, weightless in those milliseconds before gravity took a hold of them. He heard a gunshot and then, before he could react, twist them somehow so the bullet didn't hit her, they fell. He raised his hand, shooting his line upwards, praying for it to hold. The line caught a gargoyle's head and stuck, being pulled taut seconds later by the weight on its other end.

Damian screamed in pain, feeling his sore muscles being pulled tight, his injury worsening by the pull of the line on his body as it was stretched taut by their weight, his right shoulder emitting a sickening _pop_, dislocating as he forced his hand into a white – knuckled grip on the gun, he wasn't letting her fall now. He looked down at her, finding her unconscious, her body limp in his hand. A lump formed on his throat at the sight, his thoughts racing; he needed to get them out of here. He was almost pleased when he noticed they were less than ten feet off the ground. He released the line, letting go, their bodies hitting the ground with a thud. No sooner had he touched the ground had he hauled her over his shoulder, his good shoulder, teeth grinding in pain. He took her to a back alley and laid her on the ground, his hands coming away bloody. He inspected her, finding, to his horror, that the shot had ruptured her femoral artery; he needed to move fast. He pushed himself against the wall, pushing his shoulder back into place with the help of his other hand, yelping in pain as the bone came into its socket. He wasted no time, unclasping his golden cape, shredding it with a knife into long strips that he wound around her upper thigh, above the place where the bullet had hit her, knotting it tight enough to stop the flow of the blood, making an improvised tourniquet. He would need to thank Pennyworth for the first aid course later on. His transceiver rang in his ear, someone was calling him; He pressed the small button on its surface, answering.

"Hello?" he said dumbly, the pain and the worry obstructing his train of thought.

"Robin, this is Oracle. Don't respond, I know what happened, I'm sending the ricochet back to you right now, it's programmed to come back here, Firewall's much closer than the Batbunker." Came the rushed voice of a worried Barbara, and just as she'd called she hung up on him, leaving him disoriented. He picked Steph from the ground and hugged her to him, waiting.

* * *

Barbara fought to keep her composure as the "garage" opened to let the ricochet through, taking deep breaths as it stopped before her. She needed to think straight right now, remember everything Leslie had told her to do.

She opened the vehicle, finding Stephanie's unconscious body wrapped in what was left of Robin's golden cape, her form draped over Damian who was holding her tight despite his own injuries, his face and hands smeared with blood. He'd taken his green domino mask off, the traces of spirit glue on his cheekbones and brow making an odd contrast with the blood's coppery red.

He looked up at her, his blue eyes pained, not knowing what to say.

"Get her out of there," she told him, all business, she couldn't let him hinder her when she needed his help. He too needed to be thinking straight despite the pain, "I need you to put her on the stretcher over there," she said, pointing to the metallic surgical bed she'd acquired for emergencies of this sort but had hoped not to use, "and wash you hands as well as you can, you're going to help me make her right."

He simply nodded, holding her body tenderly in his arms, already standing to get her to where she'd pointed. His body seemed to be working on autopilot, his movements precise, mechanical, the endorphin cocktail in his blood taking his awareness away from his own physical pain, worry and fear – something Barbara thought she'd never see on this particular Wayne's face – etched on the deep frown he was sporting. He laid her on the stretcher carefully, proceeding to strip his upper body of any and every garment that might be dirty with a dexterity and a quickness that surprised her, revealing the extensive bruising on the right side of his chest, the odd rise and fall of his broken ribs making itself noticeable every time he took a breath. His injuries, including the shoulder that seemed to have been dislocated and haphazardly put back into place, where starting to swell considerably; but he seemed to take no notice of that as he rinsed his hands and forearms clean with determination, leaving his skin nearly raw. As she watched this, she inspected Stephanie, taking her cowl and both capes away from her, as well as the gloves and boots. The makeshift tourniquet on her was starting to show dark red spots of blood. They needed to move fast, before she lost more blood than she already had; she'd have to ask Alfred for a few bags of the donated blood he kept for emergencies.

"Damian," she called as he dried his hands hurriedly on a towel, " come over here. I need you to take the suit off of her." any boy his age would have blushed at the prospect of stripping a woman down, but as she watched she could see that Damian wasn't any boy his age. Even if his hands shook a little. She narrowed her eyes at him in suspicion, watching him breathe deeply as he took the tourniquet away from her leg, untying it slowly, gradually decreasing the pressure to avoid having her bleed out in a gush. He then picked her torso up, putting her head on his shoulder as he unfastened the zipper on the back of her suit, pulling on the now separate pieces as she helped him lay her down gently. The tight material covering her coming off easily, revealing a sports bra and batsignal panties. She resisted the urge to laugh out loud, watching him roll his eyes at an unconscious Stephanie. She was sure they all had at least one pair of bat underwear, thanks to Dick's Christmas spirit. Once the suit was thrown away from her she directed Damian to bring her everything she was going to need.

"There are no anesthetics." He deadpanned at her, coming over with the elements she'd requested. It was the first thing he said to her, his voice raspy from unuse. She grimaced.

"I know," she said, pinching the bridge of her nose, retying a looser tourniquet around Stephanie's thigh. She was bleeding profusely, and she needed to see what and where she was stitching, "that's why I need you to hold her for me, this is probably going to wake her up in a… most unpleasant way."

He snorted at her, making his opinion on the subject known, but otherwise following her instructions, picking Steph up gently into a sitting position and coming to sit behind her, her body resting against his as he straddled the stretcher. She saw him watch her carefully; intertwining his fingers with hers, her head limp against his shoulder.

So much like Bruce, she thought, he thinks others don't notice that he cares more than he lets on. She fixed her glasses and started on the surgery, picking the bullet out with sterilized pincers and discarding it on a side table, cleaning the wound as much as the sluggish flow of blood would let her and proceeding to suture her artery and leg, rubbing the wound with more disinfectant – just to make sure – all the while hearing a half awake Stephanie moan and whimper and cry in pain, tears flowing down her cheeks steadily. Damian had stopped her from kicking her legs in pain by weaving his own with hers, somehow leaving the wound untouched; the weight of his body stopping her weak thrashing, and his fingers where probably gangrenous by now, her fingernails digging into the backs of his hands, leaving bloody half moon marks behind. When she was finished she untied the tourniquet and took the white latex gloves off, sighing and running her hands through her hair.

"Ok," she said, more to reassure Damian than to herself, "All I need now, is for you to go get me some B positive blood from Alfred, she's lost a lot of her own." the businesswoman tone had never left her voice.

"Take mine," Damian said seriously, not moving an inch from where he sat, no emotion betraying his face, " I'm O negative."

_Off course_, she knew he was a blood donor. She looked him in the eye, making sure he wasn't going to bail out on her. Of all the batboys he was the one she knew the least, and thus the one she was less comfortable with. She nodded, going over to her medical kit and bringing what she needed, cleaning the already sterilized needles thoroughly – one could never be too sure.

The moment she was going to insert the needle on his arm he put his other hand on her shoulder, his hand heavy, making her look up at him, a question in her eyes.

"Barbara," he said, hesitantly, it was the first time he called her something other than Gordon, or Oracle, "Bleed me _dry_ if you have to," The force in his voice and the steely look he gave her were enough confirmation that he was being serious…and he meant it too.

When they were done she went to put the utensils in the washer, bathing her hands and face again before she went back towards the stretcher, bringing the painkillers with her.

She found Damian hugging her, his face buried on her shoulder, his arms tight around her as he murmured words in Arabic into her ear, words Stephanie could not understand, semi – unconscious or not, but _she_ did.

_Oh, you have_ got _to be kidding me._

Suspecting something was going on was one thing; hearing confirmation of their suspicion from his lips was another altogether. She did not doubt he knew what he was saying, what he was feeling. She'd learned not to doubt men like the Waynes, biological or not, on this sort of thing; but this was getting awkward. She cleared her throat, alerting him of her presence, watching him raise his head to look at her faster than she could follow, his eyes widening when he saw her expression. He knew she'd listened…and understood.

"I -," he started to say, at a loss.

"Don't, Damian," she said, sighing, "There's nothing to explain… you might want to tell her that, though. In a language she understands."

"No."

"Why not?" she started to ask, but was promptly interrupted by a mumbling Stephanie. She watched as Damian looked at her and then back at Steph, tucking strands of her hair behind her ear, swallowing convulsively.

"…Tim…" she murmured, the name slipping from her lips, less than a breath from a half remembered dream. But they both heard her, and she watched with a heavy heart as Damian sucked in a breath sharply, as if he was hit by a physical blow, his eyes screwing shut, his hands coming away from her body to fist on his spandex covered thighs. He swallowed, his throat working, and when he opened his eyes she could see the battle in them, the hurt, the anger, the hopelessness. He raised his left hand and ran it through her hair, slowly, kissing the top of her head. He cleared his throat, and spoke.

"Shush…go to sleep, Steph, just go to sleep...I'll be here when you wake up," he said, his voice a perfect imitation of Tim Drake's. Barbara's eyes widened, understanding what it was that he was doing for her. She watched him watch as she fell on a deep, untroubled sleep, his jaw set grimly. Once she was breathing steadily, he withdrew from his position, silently standing and picking up the discarded pieces of his suit, grimacing in pain, the effects of the endorphins in his bloodstream gone. He was visibly limping as he went around, dressing. He looked at her, a ravaged smile adorning his face.

"You asked why I haven't told her?" he said, his voiced heavy with scorn, with mockery for himself. She simply stared, nodding, waiting for him to continue.

" I will never tell her _anything_, because in her mind I will always remain the spoiled ten – year – old brat she met, because I'd rather have her as a friend – as much as it hurts – than not have her at all. Because I can never be what she wants…I can never be _Drake_," he stated, his voice hard, turning around and making for the door, the pain visible in his step and the way he carried himself.

"Damian," she called, her head in her hands, "you…don't have to leave."

He laughed, the sound oddly chilling in the silence of the room, making the hairs on the back her neck stand.

"Don't try to be gentle with me, we both know I'm not wanted here." he said as he turned his back on them, his control finally breaking, the anguish in his voice a visible thing. She could still do something for him, though. Something she had meant to do anyway.

"You know, the girl…the one that died when you got hurt last week?" she said, watching him straighten, his back tense, off course he remembered, how could he not; she had his undivided attention, " she was six. Not adopted, her parents were the biological ones. Her name was Penny Steward." She though she could see him sag a little in relief.

"…Thank you," he said, his voice hoarse, it might not sound much to some, but she _wasn't adopted_. She could not be Stephanie's daughter.

"If you need anything…I'm here," she said. He was a good kid, she wanted to slap him sometimes but that was genetic, his father had the same effect on her. She watched as he stepped into the lift, disappearing from sight as the door closed after him. As much as she wanted to stop this, whatever it was, before they could hurt themselves the way Dick and her had done so many times before, she knew they needed to make their own mistakes.

She was going to help them.

* * *

She had been mauled over, she was sure. Either that or they'd cut a leg off her, any or both of those options was an acceptable reason for the smoldering pain she felt streaming from her left thigh. She cracked her eyes open slowly, adjusting her eyes to the light – or lack thereof – in the room, identifying her surroundings after a minute; she was in Firewall. She started to sit up, rubbing her face with one hand, but was stopped by Barbara's gentle hold on her arm.

"Don't, lie down, rest. You need it." She said, her voice tired, weary.

"What happened?" she asked, the memories of the previous night rushing to her mind, "how long have I been out?"

"Fifteen hours," she said, " you were shot in the leg as you fell, Damian brought you here as fast as he could, helped me hold you down while I sewed you shut, gave you his blood even." Steph was sure she'd heard a note of pride there; she was most probably imagining it.

"Where's Damian then?" she asked, worried, surely he was hurt too.

"He went home after you stopped _mumbling_ and finally went to sleep, he was hurt…badly." She said, her distaste barely concealed, but it did not seem to be directed at Damian, somehow. She thought back to her memories of the previous night, the hazy part. She remembered hands holding her, keeping her safe from the pain, and someone murmuring in her ear, words she knew, words she'd learned, words she didn't know the meaning of.

"When did you say he left?" she said, afraid. _Oh, god. _What had she done?

"Right after you called him Tim, if I remember correctly." Barbara deadpanned at her.

That was it, she was just going to roll over and die. She was an idiot.

"But he – I _heard_ Tim…" she said, her voice weak, shielding her face with her hands. But off course, Damian had a talent with voices, "I'm an _idiot."_

"Is there something you want to tell me?" Barbara said, her tone ominous. She knew something, Stephanie was sure. She was starting to believe she could somehow predict her own future. She was definitely going to get yelled at.

"Uhh…no?" she said sheepishly, praying for Babs to lay off. No such luck for her.

"Stephanie, what happened between you two?" Babs asked, right to the heart of the issue. Steph sighed, she might as well hear it from _her_ lips, so she told her. She told her _everything_. And through it all Babs remained quiet as a tomb, the only sign of her distress the thin white line her mouth had become.

" Let me second that opinion of yours," Barbara said quietly when she was done, " you _are _the most _idiotic _person I have ever met," _besides myself_, she left unfinished. She was answered by silence from a musing Steph.

"He told me something," She started to say, trying to remember, "last night when he was holding me, I remember hearing him say something to me. Not in English, it was…something else. He'd said it before." Maybe Babs could help her find out what it was; she couldn't help but feel that she needed to know.

"He said that before?" she asked, intrigued, "when?"

"When we…umm, when I slept with him."

She saw Babs sigh and pinch the bridge of her nose with her forefinger and thumb, as if trying to alleviate a headache, before she looked at her fully, a glint in her Steph could not recognize.

She told her exactly what Damian had said, in Arabic, and then English.

_I love you. I love you… so much that it hurts._


End file.
